


Sublimation

by foundCarcosa



Category: Norse Mythology
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bit o' kink for the unlikely pair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sublimation

Sól tapped lightly on the heavy drapes around Heimdall’s bed, golden rays attempting to find a chink to shine through. Failing that, it bathed all of Himinbjörg in a lambent glow that managed to suffuse even the canopied bed, tinting both of the bed’s occupants.

Loki slept, and Heimdall lay beside him, but his eyes were open and unblinking. He envied the others their deep slumbers and the luxurious waking, the stretching and the languorous return of awareness.

Not this time.

This time, he reveled in his wakefulness, in the gift of the vulnerability of a slumbering Loki, in watching the light play across his drawn features and thin body, curved in on itself. His back was to Heimdall, his shoulders hunched up and in like a vulture’s, oil-black hair splayed over the pillow. Tendrils of absolute darkness, spreading, spreading. Over Himinbjörg, over the bed, over Heimdall.

He slid down so he could press his lips to the nape of Loki’s neck, a thrill pulsing through him at the feel of cold flesh against his own. He was trained — the chill of the trickster’s skin was all he had to feel to quicken, to _want._ He’d only intended to be light, affectionate; but all too soon he pressed himself against Loki’s back, as much as himself as he could manage, drawing a shuddering breath as bone-deep cold set in, paled him, absorbed him.

Loki stirred, hissed, stretched. In stretching, his back arched and his hips were thrust back. No longer in full command of himself, Heimdall had no choice but to push back, grinding, awakening Loki fully.

“Heimdall,” the trickster murmured thickly. A chuckle followed, slowly, as a half-formed afterthought. “Silly, stupid Heimdall.”

But he turned in the golden one’s arms, nuzzling the downy fur on his jawline and the underside of his chin, a sleepy purr vibrating in his chest when Heimdall’s fingers quested up the inside of his thigh, to his stirring cock.

Heimdall could not tell when it happened, or how, or even _why._ He’d been closing his fingers around hardening flesh, ghosting his lips over a pale, thin neck, and next he was flat on his back with Loki’s hands over two vital areas — his eyes and his throat.

The trickster settled his slight weight squarely on Heimdall’s thighs, and fleetingly the golden one realised that he must not be using his hands after all, he was not that tall nor were his arms that long, but he was past the point of rational thought. He could not see, and his breathing was becoming laboured. He was falling.

“What is it, Heimdall?” His tone was mocking, but Heimdall detected no malice in it, and that alone was a comfort. _Trickster, not liar. Not enemy. Not killer._ “Your senses get in the way, do they not? Seeing gets in the way of feeling. Breathing gets in the way of needing.”

Gasping, the golden one arched and twisted, struggling against the hands-that-were-not-hands, and acutely — more acutely than ever before — he felt his still-insistent hardness brush Loki’s.  
He stilled, shuddering.

Loki chuckled. “You are beginning to understand.” The chilly murmur touched his flesh, excited nerve endings, before Loki’s hands did — but now he was stroking, dragging nails, fondling, caressing. Heimdall was falling, still, but the fall was quicker now, a hurtling towards chaos, a quickening of heart and flesh and breathing — ah, yes, _breathing._  
He _could_ breathe, but barely. The not-hands pressed down momentarily, bringing the drugging dizziness, before he was allowed to drag a gasping breath into his lungs again.

There was too much to focus on — an irony, as one of his better senses had been robbed. He still had his hearing, and he could hear Loki’s own quickening breaths, the rasp of his skin against Heimdall’s as he ground their hips together, the flick of his tongue over his lips and the fluttering of his eyelashes down, down.

“Loki— _please,”_ Heimdall managed, choking but still straining up towards the not-hands, towards abandon and oblivion, towards Loki.

“Come to me,” and he could hear Loki’s smile. “Come _for_ me. You know the way, Guardian.”

Arms flung outward, body arching, a willing captive, he gave himself to the darkness, and the darkness... oh, the darkness was _good._


End file.
